Never Forgotten or Forgiven
Stan and Grace checked the numbers on their tickets as the next tour group was called. It was a beautiful day in Hawaii, the breeze gentle and the sunshine illuminating the idyllic surroundings. The couple had milled around the shoreline exhibits showing the aftermath of that day in history, patiently waiting for their turn to go the visit the memorial. Neither had much to learn; both had of them had watched lived through the history. Stan had seen the smoking aftermath shortly afterwards before his submarine headed out into the Pacific. Grace snuck a glance at her husband, who checked his watch again and stuffed his hands in his pockets. Stan was a quiet man, but years of marriage had taught Grace to could read his moods like no other. He had avoided coming to the memorial for years now, because he didn’t want to miss any of the grandchildren’s football or soccer games, or there was too much yard work to do on this summer, or Stan just “didn’t want to go on vacation this year, what was so wrong with home that they always had to leave and go somewhere else?” She smiled the last time he trotted that excuse out, and had finally persuaded him to take two weeks in Hawaii. Unspoken was their agreement to go to Pearl Harbor.
“Honey let’s go,” Stan said, breaking her out of her reverie. She smiled and took his hand as they joined the line waiting for the Navy shuttle to take them out to the memorial. Grace was looking out into the ocean when she felt Stan’s grip tighten and heard his breath grow short. Her head snapped around and saw Stan’s face grow dark red and his eyes were fixed wide. Grace followed his locked gaze and saw a group of Japanese tourists leaving the shuttle. Stan followed them with his eyes and his grip on Grace’s hand grew tighter. She tugged him forward as the next group boarded the shuttle. His breathing did not slow down for several minutes, and his face returned to its normal color. Grace sat next to him and watched as the graceful arc of the USS Arizona Memorial grew closer, straddling the sunken battleship An American flag hung from the flagpole in the center of the memorial, attached to the severed mainmast of the sunken battleship. Stan still didn’t say anything. The Navy shuttle docked at the landing and the tour group disembarked. The couple walked onto the pier, but Stan slowed down and Grace watched as everyone passed them both. Instead of walking inside, Stan walked to the edge of the pier, and Grace stood next to him.
“That’s part of gun turret number three” Stan said, pointing to the round turret protruding from the water, not far from the memorial itself.
“Are you alright Stan?”
He sighed. “I don’t know Grace.
“We don’t have to go inside if you don’t want to.”
“When I was in occupied Japan after the war was over, we used to teach the kids English. Anytime some kid would come up and say “Jap eat shit” we’d give ‘em a cigarette. Maybe I taught some of those people on the last tour their first English words”
Grace took his hand again. “I don’t know Grace. It’s been so long, but I can’t, I just . . .
His words faded away, and they watched the USS Arizona ripple beneath the water.